


Second Course

by Fyre



Series: Hunger [11]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Angels with Genitalia, Blindfolds, Consensual Kink, Light Bondage, Love, Pegging, Sex Toys, Spanking, Trust
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-07
Updated: 2019-09-07
Packaged: 2020-10-12 01:36:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,377
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20556074
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fyre/pseuds/Fyre
Summary: A little more time trickles by, sand in the hourglass, when a new scent twines through the woodsmoke.Aziraphale’s head snaps up. He knows the scent and his heart skips a beat. Perfume. A particular perfume. Something dark and alluring and worn by only one person.A new sound mingles with time and heat, the tap-tap-tap of heels in the hall.Oh, Lord, Aziraphale thinks, taking a gulping breath. He knows, he knows, what part of the surprise must entail.





	Second Course

“I have a present for you.”

Aziraphale marks his place on the page with a fingertip, glancing across at Crowley. The demon is sprawled on the rug in front of the fire, hands behind his head. “A present?”

“Mm.” Crowley smiles lazily at the ceiling. “Technically a Christmas present, if we’re going by the old calendar.” He opens one eye to meet Aziraphale’s curious gaze. “D’you want it?” Given the delight they have shared with his last present, Aziraphale’s cheeks warm at the thought, which makes Crowley grin. “That’s a yes, then?”

“What… kind of present is it?” Aziraphale asks, closing his book over and setting it down beside him on the couch. “If it involves going out...” He glanced pointedly at the rain sleeting against the windows from the dark sky. Barely even five o’clock and already so gloomy.

“Nah.” Crowley’s grin widens. “Definitely a stay-in kind of present.”

The angel nods happily. “Very well, then.”

Crowley pushes himself up on his elbows, his hair a loose spill behind him. “There’s a particular dress code for you to get this one,” he cautions, lips twitching like temptation.

Aziraphale cannot help but bite his lip in anticipation. “And,” he finally manages to ask, “what is that?”

The demon splays his hand on the rug beside him. “Come down here. I’ll show you.”

The angel slips from the couch, falling to his knees like a penitent at prayer, spreading his hands loose in supplication by his sides. “Whatever you wish, dearest.”

Crowley simply looks at him for a dozen heartbeats, golden eyes unblinking, as if etching every line of Aziraphale’s face in his memory. “You _have_ to stop saying things like that,” he says, a little breathless, when he finally leans closer. “It’s very distracting.”

Aziraphale’s lips twitch helplessly. “I know.”

Crowley bares his teeth, grasping Aziraphale by the waistcoat and pulling him closer. “I know you know,” he hisses, the tips of their noses brushing, “you utter bastard.”

Aziraphale tilts his chin up and drops the lightest feather of a kiss on the tip of Crowley’s nose. “And I know you love it.”

The demon spreads his hand on Aziraphale’s chest, sliding it slowly downwards. “Not the point,” he grumbles fondly, as one by one, he twists the buttons of Aziraphale’s waistcoat undone. He lowers his head and presses a kiss to the side of the angel’s throat, then nips. “You’re such a naughty bastard.”

There’s something exquisite about hearing such things on Crowley’s lips. From anyone else, they would be an insult, but from Crowley, it is the most cherished of endearments, a whisper of all the reasons Crowley loves him, framed in words that should never have been applied to him.

“And you’re so very lovely,” he whispers in response, lifting his hand to card through Crowley’s hair, glorying in the heavy texture, then sinking his fingers deeper to cradle Crowley’s head, urging, enticing him closer, even as Crowley’s nimble fingers dispatch the waistcoat and move on to Aziraphale’s shirt.

There’s a softness to it, even when bites burn at his throat and his breath catches. Crowley’s touches are as light as a feather, the shirt falling away, fingertips chasing it down his arms to fall to the floor behind him.

“Angel,” Crowley’s voice is a husky breath against his throat, “I need you to stand for me.”

Stand. Yes. Good. He can, naturally, do that. Naturally. Very good. Only… only, his legs seem quite happy where they are and his hand insistently nudges Crowley’s lips downwards and he really has no urge to rise at all.

The demon lifts his head, the smile definitely a smirk now. “Don’t want your surprise, then?”

Aziraphale blinks slowly at him. “What else do you need rid of?” he demands, curling and uncurling his fingers in Crowley’s hair.

The demon grins, crinkling his nose, and purrs, “_Everything_.”

“If I ask,” Aziraphale begins. “Will–”

Crowley laughs. “I won’t tell you.” His eyes dance. “Don’t want to ruin the surprise.”

Generally, as a rule, Aziraphale does not like to banish his clothing. The removing of clothing – and the donning of the same – is a little indulgence, the layers and fabrics and textures all folding one upon another. Intricate little rituals of buttons and fastenings and ties.

And yet, sometimes, once in a while, Crowley manages to make him forget all about it and all at once, he is kneeling naked upon the plush rug, a delighted demon beaming at him.

“I forget how keen you get,” Crowley says with a heady laugh, sweeping in to claim a kiss.

Aziraphale pulls him closer and there is certainly something to be said for the coarseness of the denim sliding against his bare thighs as Crowley kneels up over him.

“Ah, ah, ah.” Crowley breaks away from the kisses, pressing his hands down on Aziraphale’s shoulders. “Not so fast.” He lifts one hand, drawing it over Aziraphale’s eyes, and the familiar sensation of silk blinds him.

“Oh!”

“Mm.” Crowley’s mouth claims his again, his tongue flickering teasingly against Aziraphale’s before he pulls back again. “That kind of thing.” He pushes back against the angel’s arms and Aziraphale releases him at once, for when the blindfold is in play, the most delicious of things have often happened.

Crowley rises and a moment later, the heavy drawer of Crowley’s desk creaks open.

Sometimes, Aziraphale wonders what he keeps in there but they both have their private places and, anyway, it _would_ ruin any surprise that Crowley chose to give him. So he sits, demure and angelic, hands folded in his bare lap, and waits.

Crowley’s light tread moves from the wooden floor to the rug, his trousers – with calculating deliberation – brushing Aziraphale’s upper arm. It’s absurd how little it takes to send a thrill of pleasure through Aziraphale’s body and Crowley laughs as if he can read his mind.

“Patience, angel,” he says, one hand squeezing Aziraphale’s shoulders as he sinks to kneel behind him. “I’m just getting started.” His touch softens, fingertips grazing Aziraphale’s throat and stroking everso softly. “You remember the rules?”

Aziraphale cannot help rolling his head back, a pleasant shudder rippling through him as Crowley teasingly pets his bare throat, fingers dancing sensuously around places usually concealed behind collars and bowties. “Of course, darling.”

“Good.” A heated kiss presses just below his ear, fleeting and delicious, then all contact is gone. “Hands behind your back.”

The angel obeys at once, crossing his wrists, anticipation making his heart quiver. One of Crowley’s hands catches his and something small and cylindrical brushes between his fingers.

“Do you know what this is, angel?”

It’s barely the length of his thumb and he runs a fingertip across its width, puzzlement furrowing his brow. “Thread?”

“Mm.” The bobbin is lifted from his fingers again. “The finest of gold silk.” A strand – thin as a spider’s web – is drawn across his fingertips, so fine and friable that it feels as if it may snap on contact. “I expect it to remain intact. Do you understand?”

Aziraphale nods, but as Crowley twines it around his wrists in sweeping loops, the more fragile it feels. He clasps his hands together, to keep them from falling apart, to keep it from snapping, such delicate and precious bonds.

“It’s very thin,” he offers as the demon weaves in-out, a figure of eight against his skin.

“And you’re a _very_ obedient angel,” Crowley murmurs, drawing the thread pleasantly tight. His lips ghost against Aziraphale’s shoulder. “Aren’t you?”

Aziraphale shivers, so very aware of the delicate pressure against his wrists. “I try to be,” he says with as much dignity as he can muster.

“And you do it so well.” At once, there’s a body close to his back and Aziraphale strains to keep his arms from parting, made even more difficult when Crowley’s palm slips over his hip, curving down and resting like a weight of the world between his thighs. “We’re going to play, angel,” Crowley breathes, hot and soft and Lord, the thread will snap in no time. “You get to choose.”

“Choose?” Aziraphale echoes, trying to keep every thought on the thread – he’s so sure he can feel it fraying already – but between Crowley’s breath on his ear, chest at his back and the heavy warmth of his palm and teasing, tickling fingers.

“I need,” Crowley whispers, lips like silk at his earlobe, “_something_ to play with.” His fingers drift meaningfully against smooth skin. “Your choice.”

“Oh, you… _beast_…” Aziraphale groans. “You couldn’t ask _before_?”

“And where,” Crowley chuckles, “is the fun in that?”

It takes every ounce of focus that Aziraphale can muster to will his body to change. More often than not, he prefers to change inwardly and he knows how much Crowley enjoys teasing him that way, but if Crowley is being so wicked to him… well, two can play at that game.

At once, the demon’s hand is full and Aziraphale bites down a smug smile at the surprised huff against his throat.

“Not your usual choice,” Crowley observes, slowly curling his fingers around Aziraphale’s new member and squeezing.

“Variety,” Aziraphale says, taking slow and deliberate breaths, his hands in tight knots. “Spice of life, you know.”

“Mm.” Crowley gives him a last squeeze, then pats his thigh, and rises. “Don’t go anywhere.”

Aziraphale resists the urge to make some flippant reply, gathering himself and deepening his breathing to calm himself.

The room is quiet around him, the soft crackle and hiss of the flames spreading fingers of warmth out towards him, the quiet tick of the clock on the mantle the only other sound. Beneath him, the rug is so soft and thick that he feels as if he kneeling on a cloud and he lets himself relax, little by little.

His new… accoutrement rests snugly between his thighs, barely roused by any measure. It’s a tricky beast, he’s found. Judging by… well… men in general, he assumed it would be much simpler to stimulate and yet, the first time he tried one, it just lay there, limp and unappealing as an uncooked sausage and he had to call Crowley in to help.

The silly demon laughed at him and then even more so when his vigorous attempts to rouse it did nothing. It was ridiculous, given how quickly Crowley’s own unwanted attempt had sprung to life in his hands. And then… well… it seemed that while he couldn’t rouse it, a few suggestive words in his ear and a few lazy strokes from Crowley’s hand did the job very well.

If Crowley wants to make this a more difficult trial, then he had best put his money where his mouth is. Or – a frisson of delight ripples through Aziraphale’s body – perhaps put his mouth where–

No. No, no. No thinking of such things and ruining Crowley’s surprise. If he ever wants his beloved demon to indulge him like that, he knows he need only ask. Whatever Crowley has planned, it was not with that as a baseline.

The clock continues to tick, soft, sonorous, over the snap of the flame, the scent of woodsmoke a whisper in the air. The thread pinches against his skin, tight enough but not too tight. Beyond the walls and windows, there’s a breath of wind around the cottage.

One minute, five minutes, ten…

Aziraphale shifts his weight on his knees, wondering what he must look like, bared, blind and bound, humbled and helpless. And yet, no matter how many times they play such games, he never feels anything less than utterly safe.

A little more time trickles by, sand in the hourglass, when a new scent twines through the woodsmoke.

Aziraphale’s head snaps up. He knows the scent and his heart skips a beat. Perfume. A particular perfume. Something dark and alluring and worn by only one person.

A new sound mingles with time and heat, the tap-tap-tap of heels in the hall.

Oh, _Lord_, Aziraphale thinks, taking a gulping breath. He knows, he _knows_, what part of the surprise must entail. He remembers the bedpost, the delicious burning sting of a leather-gloved hand against his bare skin and the wet, licking ruby mouth…

Heat throbs through him, unexpected and dizzying, and the softness against his thigh becomes considerably less so.

Her fingertips whisper against the doorframe, leather against varnished wood, and Aziraphale’s chest tightens.

“_Nanny_…” He means to say it, he truly does, but it comes out as little more than a moan, echoed by the catch in Crowley’s breath. Such a small sweet urgent sound, that, and he has to shift on his knees, the throb in his groin sudden and sharp.

“Well,” Nanny purrs, once Crowley has mastered his tongue again, “it looks like someone is pleased to see me.”

Aziraphale tries to recall words, his hands curling tighter together. “I–” His voice is hoarse and his mouth dry. “I didn’t know you’d be coming.”

Nanny chuckles and the tap of heels softens as she steps onto the rug. “Of course you didn’t, lamb,” she says. “It wouldn’t have been a surprise now, would it?”

Her skirts brush his upper arms as she circles him, always circling, and he turns his head to follow her, shivering delightedly when her thumb grazes his cheek.

“I must say you have me a wee bit off-guard,” she purrs. “I remember the bother you’ve had with your wee… accessory. And only by thought of me?”

Any blood in Aziraphale’s body floods to his cheeks, warming them. “You have a rather… potent,” affect,” he whispers, tilting his head into her palm. She allows it, caressing the curve of his jaw with her fingertips.

“How potent, I wonder,” she murmurs and at once, he is untouched again.

Aziraphale turns his head this way and that, trying to pinpoint where she may be, but the only sounds are the crackle of the flame and the ponderous tick of the clock. He jolts when her fingers alight softly on his bare shoulder from behind, Nanny’s thumb running slowly up and down the nape of his neck and raising goosebumps on his skin.

“Tell me, my wee lamb,” she murmurs, sweet as honey, “have you been naughty?”

Aziraphale dabs his tongue along his lip. “Not that I know of,” he manages.

“No?”

Something brushes the angel’s side, making him shiver. Leather, he thinks. Not a belt. Too small. Trailing down then brushing his thigh. A whisper of air and motion is all the warning he gets before the delicious sting of it against his bare thigh, a sharp sound catching in his throat.

“I-I can’t recall,” he stammers out. Lord, his fingers ache from twisting together and he sways on his knees.

“A shame,” Nanny sighs and all at once, her lips are close to his ear, her breath hot as sulphur, “for one so… _lovely_.”

Oh. Oh! He remembers that word. He remembers an evening not so long ago.

“Oh, my dear!”

Another sting touches his thigh and the… a crop perhaps? Lord, he can’t be sure.

“Aye, dear,” Nanny whispers. “I’m here to punish you for your syn… onyms.”

Aziraphale is sure he would have laughed or groaned at such a dreadful wordplay, has she not immediately caught his earlobe between her lips. Instead, a bitten-off whine strains in his throat and he trembles from head to foot as her tongue curves, dipping into the shell of his ear.

“I wonder,” – Her breath is so very hot on his dampened skin, every word a ripple of pleasure – “if words would satisfy you, lamb.”

No, Aziraphale wants to protest, not knowing she is there with leather and hand and Lord only knows what else. No, no, no…

“I might tell you,” she continues, the crop lightly tapping against his thigh, “exactly what I have in mind for such a naughty, _naughty_ boy who plays with words so wickedly.” The brush of her hair against his ear makes Aziraphale gasp aloud. “I know some words you would _really_ enjoy.”

No slowly bleeds into curiosity. “S-such as?”

Nanny’s chuckle is filthy and victorious. “What do you think of…” She’s so close, her perfume cloaks him like gossamer, fine and alluring, and her lips skim his ear like temptation, “_Fellatio_.”

Aziraphale’s world swims at the thought. The red lips, skimming against his skin. Imagining them closing about him. Crowley – Nanny – is damned skilled with their tongue. Imagines the look in those golden eyes as his cheeks hollow and he–

“Ngggh!”

Nanny tugs his earlobe again, then suckles on it, making his toes curl and his newest addition throb almost to the point of pain. “I think you like that one, don’t you, my lamb?” she purrs. “It’s almost as delicious as _Criso_, don’t you think?”

Oh Lord… Lord have mercy…

The thought of Nanny atop him, her thighs, stockings, garters, writhing like the snake she is…

“How did you put it?” she breathes. “You wanted me to… get a wiggle on, didn’t you? Telling me all your filthy little desires, weren’t you?” She chuckles and his hips jerk at the thought, the sound, the images dancing behind his eyes. “Oh, you would _like_ that, wouldn’t you, you _naughty_ boy.”

“Cr–” Aziraphale catches himself, his breath coming to hard. The golden bonds are straining on his wrists, and she’s making it far more difficult to obey. “Nanny…”

“Hush lamb, hush,” Nanny murmurs, stroking his neck soothingly. “Only a wee bit longer, I think.” The shape of her smile is warm and wicked against his cheek and she kisses lightly, so innocently. “Would you like me on my knees again? Would you like me to taste you every way you can think of?”

Aziraphale’s ribs heave and the shivers of want are wracking his body, delicious and painful and intense.

“I would, you know,” she confides in a wicked whisper. “I would eat you up, my sweet wee lamb. I’d make you _beg_.”

The threads give way, but Aziraphale couldn’t care less, his body folding over itself, seeking some kind of pressure, friction, heat, contact, _anything_. His world is drawing down into that tight, throbbing place, wanting, needing, _aching_ for release and as if she can read his very thoughts, Nanny’s teeth cut into his ear and a sharp sting of the crop against his backside shatters him.

He sags over his knees at her feet, breathing too hard, his hands limp in their tangled bonds behind him.

Nanny’s warmth is close by his side, her knees brushing his calf as she kneels down by him. “Isn’t that better, lamb?” she coos softly, stroking his hair with a tenderness that belies the crop in her hand. “Satisfying, isn’t it?”

He nods, gulping deep breaths of air, which is both better and worse, her scent utterly enveloping him. “Y-yes, Nanny. Thank you.”

“Och, no need for that.” Her fingertips – leather-clad – trace down his spine and his skin, already thrumming, sends tingling fire through him. “Though,” she murmurs, as her hands skim lower, “I can’t help but notice you’ve got some loose threads around your wrists.”

Aziraphale’s heart gives an odd little flip and he forces himself back up, shaking, to his knees. “It snapped?”

“Mm.” Her hand brushes with tantalising gentleness down his arm, then _twists_ into the bundle of thread, pulling his wrists tightly against her hand. “Don’t think I don’t know that you were meant to take care of it.” She gives a soft, long-suffering sigh. “Very disappointing, dear.”

“Sorry, Nanny,” Aziraphale breathes, though his heart is beating a little faster in anticipation. Is that why Crowley chose thread, after all? To make a command that couldn’t possibly be obeyed? To give Nanny a reason to–

She pulls him back hard by his wrists, his shoulder knocking against her chest, and her lips brush so close to his ear. “Did you do that on purpose, dear?” she whispers. “Did you do that to make Nanny cross with you?”

His arms are straining, his back drawn in a taut bow, and Lord, he’s breathless all over again. “N-no, Nanny! I tried! I promise!” He bites down on the thought that he might have done it, had he the wits about him, but not now, not–

The crop whispers up his abdomen, tracing patterns on skin that prickles all over everywhere she touches, making his body strain between her grip and the tantalisingly brief skim of the leather.

“O-oh!” Aziraphale’s words evaporate.

“I don’t like to be disappointed, dear,” Nanny breathes, bringing the crop up beneath his jaw, tilting his chin up. “I’m afraid I have to punish you. Do you understand?”

Oh Lord, yes. Yes, please.

“Well?” she prompts, the tip of the crop pressing to his jaw, a warning of things to come.

“Yes, Nanny,” he gasps out. “Forgive me, Nanny.”

Crop, hands and Nanny are suddenly gone, not touching, not anywhere close.

“On your feet,” she says, her voice a purr once more.

Once he untangles himself from the thread at his wrists, he pushes himself, reeling, to his feet on legs trembling like blancmange. His belly is damp with his own spillage and he cannot help but futilely dab at himself, the sensation rather unpleasant.

“Nanny,” he begins, his voice small. “May I have a handkerchief? Please?”

“Of course, dear.” The smile is audible in her voice and her hand presses a folded square of cloth into his fingers. One of his own, he realises, unfolding it and tidying himself up. Abruptly, her hand cups his chin and he finds he can’t breathe all over again. “Such a neat boy, aren’t you, darling?” she says, the affection colouring her words with Crowley’s own accent. Her lips graze his and when she draws back, the handkerchief is whisked from his fingers.

He ducks his head, cheeks warm, knowing full well he almost made her break character. “Thank you very much, Nanny. It was very… kind of you.”

A light swat on his hip is accompanied by a chuckle.

“I think you are trying to be provocative, hm?”

He can’t help the smile that breaks onto his lips. “I beg your pardon,” he says, clasping his hands in all modesty. “I’ve been told I’m a bit of a bastard.”

She sweeps around behind him and prods him in the middle of his back. “More than a bit, I’d wager.” The tip of the crop follows the path of his spine, making him straighten at once. “Now, dear, you’ll have to trust my eyes, all right?”

He nods at once. “Yes, Nanny.”

“Three steps forward, then.”

He obeys at once, though he keeps his feet low to the floor, the carpet grazing his soles. One, two, three, without colliding with anything. The coffee table. She must have moved it elsewhere. Every little detail into consideration.

“Two steps left.” She’s still behind him, the tip of the crop resting lightly at the base of his spine, both threat and delicious promise.

He takes the guided steps, his breath hitching as he realises her intent. Crowley’s desk is perhaps an arm’s length in front of him now, broad and bare, and it would not be the first time they have found novel uses for it.

“One step forward,” Nanny murmurs, lifting the crop away.

He obeys, darting his tongue along his lower lip. A tremor ripples through him as her fingertips splay on the curve at the base of his back. She says nothing, only circling her fingers, no doubt relishing every shiver that runs through him.

The pressure changes infinitesimally, fingers to the flat of her hand, a gentle push, guiding him to bend forward. “Hands out before you,” she murmurs.

Aziraphale reaches out, finding the surface of the desk only inches in front of him. He spreads his hands, leaning forward with the gentle force of her touch, until she lifts her hand away, satisfied.

“There,” she says and those same fingers graze his side, not quite tickling over his ribs. “If you need to lean forward, lamb, you can do so.” With her other hand, she traces the crop up his bare thigh. “Now, do you remember what you did wrong?”

Aziraphale nods, his whole body vibrating with anticipation. He braces his hands on the desk. “I abused my thesaurus,” he said, schooling his voice to steadiness. The crop trails in snake-like patterns, further and further up his thigh. Not wicked enough, not yet. “I made fun of my dearest love.”

The hiss and crack against his skin makes him jolt, fire springing through him.

“You did, didn’t you?” Nanny trails the tip of the crop across the searing skin. “_What_ did you call him again?”

Oh, it was insensitive at the time, and yet he couldn’t help himself. “Divine,” he admits, then hisses through his teeth at a sharper snap, crossing the first.

“And _why_ would you do something silly like that?” Nanny murmurs, her empty hand catching his hip to hold him steady.

“Because he _is_,” Aziraphale whispers. “To me.”

Nanny goes utterly still. Something clatters to the floor, a moment before her hand spreads on his stinging backside. “You, dear,” she sighs, rubbing her hand in a soothing, yet throbbing circle, making him shift against her touch, “are a damned nightmare.”

“Not intentionally,” he protests half-heartedly, then cries out when she smacks him _hard._

“Cheeky,” she chastises, soothing the spreading heat with another caress of her hand. “Did I say you could backchat?”

Aziraphale shakes his head, stooping forward, bracing from hands to his forearms, baring himself, utterly helpless to her wishes.

Another sharp crack of her hand, another whispering touch, and her voice, echoing whisper like a cavern. “Your words, dear. Let me hear your words.”

“Yes, Nanny,” he breathes out. “N-no backchat.”

“Good boy,” she says, voice soft with approval, then lifts her hands away.

For a split-second, he almost protests the loss aloud, then bites his tongue. Fabric – leather? – lands with a soft plaf on the desktop beside him and he is still trying to understand when two cool, bare hands stroke his hips, the air gusting from his lungs in shock.

“You broke the thread, didn’t you, dear?” One hand circles low to his untended buttock.

“Y-yes, Nanny.” The crack of skin to skin makes him breath catch, hands bunching in fists. Her palm is cool and the contrast draws a whine from his throat and when she crooks her fingers and squeezes, his hips leap forward of their own accord. His… addition is already throbbing again and he bends lower, humble, submissive, shaking.

“Poor lamb,” she says softly. “I had hoped I wouldn’t need to punish you again. Not when I have… other plans for you.”

Aziraphale’s world slows about him, dark and quiet, hung upon those two words. Other plans. _Other plans_? He tries to speak, but his mouth is too dry to ask, the possibilities, the option, her earlier suggestions whispering across his mind.

Then, suddenly, she steps in close, much closer, so much closer he can feel the brush of her clothing against his tender skin, the crease of the cloth, the press of leather straps and buckles and she rocks her hips and something hard and sleek rubs between his splayed thighs and– and– and–

“N-Nanny?”

Her hands are back at his hips and she’s moving, rocking, rubbing and–and –and–

“Aye?” she purrs, plastering herself over his back.

The length of it is grazing against him, from the opening at the back to the base of his newest part, warm and thick and like but not like the one Crowley had produced and Aziraphale cannot– it–

He’s painfully and mortifyingly hard in seconds, squirming back against it, rubbing himself on it, meeting the teasing stroke. Cloth and buckles and leather scrape on tender skin and he keens, pressing his brow to his clenched fists.

“Aziraphale.”

He whimpers, his name on her lips, in those tones, rich and honeyed and sinful. “Mm?”

Her lips tug on his earlobe. “I want to _fuck_ you.”

His world tightens in a flare of lust, shock, awe and–

“Fuck!” He gasps helplessly into his fists as his hips shudder forwards, liquid heat spattering his skin.

Nanny strokes his side soothingly. “It’s all right,” she murmurs, nuzzling his ear. “I’m not finished with you yet.” She kisses the side of his throat softly. “Would you like me to care of you, dear?”

Lord, sweet Jesus…

“Please,” he pants out, “please, please, please…”

She steps back, just a little, just enough, slipping a hand between their bodies. Aziraphale knocks his brow to his fists, muscles tensing and taut in his thighs as she grazes her fingers around his opening. She hums softly, then _presses _and Aziraphale hisses a sharp breath as fingers sink into him, slicker than he expected.

“Good boy,” she praises. “Good. Relax, lamb. Relax.”

He tries. Lord, he tries, but his body has other ideas and he’s coiled, tense as a spring. Shouldn’t be. Ought to be breathless, spent, spilled out before her, but anticipation, Lord, it has its hooks in him and he gasps sharp and ragged as she strokes over and over, touching a place that sends frissons of electricity ricocheting through his already frayed nerves.

When she draws her hand away, he uncurls a twitching hand, a mute, helpless plea.

She notices – of course, she does, wonderful, wonderful creature that she is – and lays her hands chastely at his hips. “Too fast?”

He shakes his head, holding up a single finger.

“A moment?” She smiles against his shoulder. “Of course, dear.” Kisses butterfly across his bare shoulders and nape, so very gentle, then she tenderly nips the back of his neck. “You look delicious like this, my wee lamb,” she whispers against his skin. “Ready to eat.”

Oh Lord…

And still, she waits, waits until his breathing has evened a little and he curls the lonely finger back down.

He tilts his head, manages a shaking smile. “Thank you, Nanny,” he whispers.

She leans so close, covering him like the most loving of blankets, and kisses the corner of his lips. “You’re very welcome, dear,” she whispers, sounding almost utterly like Crowley, and he cannot help but crane awkwardly for a kiss that escapes him. “Soon,” she promises as her lips skitter away, then her hands are on his hips and she holds him fast, grinding her hips up against him.

Lord, the slick friction if almost enough, but he hears her catch a deeper, steadying breath and bites his lips, his air escaping in in a rush as she thrusts deep into him. His hands skitter wildly across the desk and his feet on the floor as he tries to push himself back, urging her closer, deeper, until they are flush against one another.

He gropes back blindly, catching her hip, holding her there, and her hand covers his, squeezing.

“I have you, lamb,” she says, hoarse and shivering. “I have you.”

He doesn’t know who is more surprised when he’s the one to start moving. Her hand trembles under his as he push-pulls against her, feeling her… whatever the Hell it is sliding in, then out, deeper, all but grinding himself against her. Like a pestle and mortar, he thinks with a giddy giggle. Rhythm. Very important.

“Good…” Nanny breathes, moving her hands back to his hips, matching him, meeting him, bringing them somehow, miraculously even closer. Angles her hips and dips her body and in the darkness of his world, Aziraphale sees stars, his back arching against her chest, fresh electric sharp fire scorching through him.

“Aye, lamb…” Her hand dips down below him, finding that new soft part of him. Should be spent, yet the press of her, her breath, her touch, the grind and roll of her hips driving him against the desk, deep and hard and in and around and utterly smothering him…

Her fingers tighten around his length, squeezing and stroking. His world is nothing but Nanny. Everywhere around him. Breathing her in, dying from her, living by her whim, squirming, keening and shuddering under her. He moans, unclenching his fingers, sinking them into his own hair, legs trembling, body and mind teetering closer to–

“I have you, darling,” Nanny purrs and then does… moves… something…

Aziraphale cries out, arching, in blissful agony.

It’s like a starburst behind his eyes, the world crashing through him and into dazzling, breathless, dizzying silence.

He lies there, shaking, panting, still, arms limp on either side of his head, cheek pressed to the cool polished desk.

Little by little, sense by sense, his world creeps back around him: the crackle of the fire, the tick of the clock, perfume like incense, the warm spiced whisper of Nanny’s breath on his neck, the scratch of her blouse against his back, the press of her hips to his, their bodies still connected...

Nanny lifts herself over him and at once, he knows she means to…

“No,” he whispers, blindly groping for her nearest arm, catching her wrist. “Just… a moment?”

She leans over him at once, stroking his sweat-damped curls. “You’re not hurt, are you?” Not Nanny, in that voice. Not at all.

His lips twitch. “Oh no,” he murmurs. “Not at all.” He squeezes her wrist again. “I… like having you close.”

Crowley’s sigh of relief gusts against his cheek. “Oh, thank… whoever for that,” she laughs unsteadily, nuzzling his ear. “Don’t scare me like that!”

“Sorry,” Aziraphale murmurs, exhaling a contented sigh. “S’very nice.”

“Good.” Crowely kisses his cheek. “I had to do some very urgent googling.”

“Mm?” Aziraphale cants his head.

“You never go external,” Crowley laughs, kissing his cheek again. “I was all ready for internal! I’d played with that before! Had to do some emergency research!”

Aziraphale gives a slow and deliberate push of his hips. “You feel rather… internal to me.”

A playful swat to his backside makes him hiss. “You know what I mean,” Crowley grumbles fondly. She strokes the offended skin again, gently. “How about we move you somewhere a bit more comfortable than the desk?”

Aziraphale hums in protest. “Like you inside,” he murmurs.

The demon laughs. “Best of both worlds, this.” Abruptly, leather and metal brush his skin, and Crowley steps back, but Aziraphale can still feel her… whatever it is buried snugly in him. There’s something strangely… pleasant about it and he shifts his weight, feeling it move. Her hands catch him by the hips. “Up you get, angel.”

It takes more effort than he would care to admit, legs splays and quivering. Crowley slips her shoulder under his arm, guiding his shambling feet back across the carpet towards the couch, where she helps him down, laying him on his side. With another handkerchief, she tenderly cleans up the mess he's made of himself and he wonders if his expression gives away the soft warmth blossoming in his chest.

“If you don’t mind, love,” she says, smile audible in her voice, and holds his hip with one hand, reaching behind him with the other.

The slow friction of withdrawal is quite… unusual and he shudders, exhaling.

“All right?” she asks again, over the rattle of metal and hiss of leather and whisper of fabric.

“Mm.” He subsides back on the couch. Not the usual texture, he notices. A blanket. He reaches up to the blindfold across his eyes. “May I?”

“One second…” Crowley’s voice is harried and the slap of leather and metal comes again. “Right! Go on, then.”

Aziraphale tugs the knot at the back of his head and the silk band slithers away. He squints, eyes adjusting to the warm golden light of the fire-bright room, and his mouth goes dry all over again at the sight of Crowley in all Nanny’s majesty. Her gorgeous hair is extravagantly coiled, her manicured hands on her hips, silk blouse and corset about her torso, a leather… harness of some kind fitted around her hips and over her stockings, and jutting up from it, the… object which he must have been so intimately acquainted with, wiped clean and dry and gleaming deep red by the firelight.

“Oh good Lord…” he breathes, staring.

Crowley raises an eyebrow. “This is why I thought we might need the blindfold,” she says, but she’s grinning. She cants a hip, making the… device bob from side to side, and put a hand behind her head. “What do you think? Does it suit me?”

Aziraphale holds out a hand to her. “Come here, my darling.”

Crowley slips her fingers into his, her expression softening. “You enjoyed the squishy one. Thought you might like this as a substitute.”

Aziraphale nods, tugging her down to sit by him on the couch. “I love you,” he confides, kissing the back of her palm, then turning her hand over and kissing her palm too. “You spoil me, darling.”

Crowley sprawls down over him and nudges the tip of his nose with her own. “It’s self-indulgence, angel,” she laughs, lifting a hand to stroke through his hair. “I like seeing you like that. You like being like that. Win-win for everyone.”

He wraps a fatigue-heavy arm around her. “Mm. But you didn’t need to...” He gives her latest toy a careful prod. “This. You didn’t have to.”

Crowley braces her hands on either side of his head. “What part of self-indulgence are you missing?” she purrs, stretching her body out over his. “This is just the warm-up, angel. I’ve got six thousand years of daydreams and fantasies to get through before I’m done with you.”

Aziraphale stares at her, heart thumping sharply. “For all that time?”

She nuzzles the tip of his nose. “What can I say?” she says, eyes dancing. “I’m a very, very naughty demon.”

He laughs, pulling her more snugly over him, smiling as she buries her face comfortably in his throat. “That’s just as well, then,” he murmurs, revelling in the press of her breasts and the jut of her new plaything against him. “After all, I’m a very, very naughty angel.”

She chuckles, kissing his throat. “I know.” A sharp delicious sting of a bite sends a last faint flicker through his utterly exhausted body. “And I love it.”

**Author's Note:**

> Can safely say I did _not_ expect the pegging. Had idly been wondering about Aziraphale giving Crowley a harness, when Crowley went "Ha! No. I have one already. I'm waiting for the opportune moment" and my brain went O.O And then Aziraphale decided he wanted external junk and Crowley went O.O And lo, the fic :D


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